I went home and found the yaya wearing a silk dress, revealing her long, smooth legs. I couldn’t think of anything else—I jumped straight in…

It was 11 o’clock at night. As soon as I got out of the taxi in Quezon City, the smell of alcohol clung to every breath I took. I had just finished a very successful dinner with clients, and my head felt light, proud, untouchable.

But beneath that pleasure was a dark desire I had hidden for a long time behind a respectable face.

That desire was Liza—our new kasambahay, barely 20 years old, from the province, whom my wife had hired just two months earlier.

Liza was young and fresh, like a flower that hadn’t yet seen its first storm. Even dressed in a simple daster, the curves of her body were impossible to ignore. More than once, I had caught myself swallowing hard whenever she passed by.

My wife, Ana, was different now. After two pregnancies, her body had changed. Her skin had darkened under years of sleepless nights, and her entire world revolved around the kitchen, the children, and keeping the household together.

The boredom of married life—combined with temptation living under the same roof—had pushed me dangerously close to crossing the line more times than I wanted to admit.

When I entered the house, it was dark. Only the kitchen light was on.

I was about to head straight upstairs when I froze.

Near the minibar, under the dim yellow light, stood a figure with her back to me, pouring water.

She wasn’t wearing the usual loose house clothes.

She was wearing a red silk nightgown—the very same one I had bought for Ana on our wedding anniversary years ago, a dress she never wore because it was “too revealing.”

And those legs…

The short fabric revealed long, pale legs, straight and glowing softly under the light. Her long black hair was tied back neatly.

That posture. That youth.

It wasn’t Ana.

“Liza…” her name flashed through my mind.

In my drunken haze, a story formed instantly in my head—maybe she had noticed my glances, my silence. Maybe she had waited until my wife was asleep, slipped into that dress, and sent a signal.

The alcohol burned through my veins, swallowing what little conscience I had left. I completely forgot about my wife upstairs.

I approached quietly.

She didn’t turn around—whether she didn’t notice or pretended not to, I didn’t care.

When I was close enough, I lost control and wrapped my arms around her slender waist from behind.

“Ah…” she let out a soft sound, her body trembling slightly—but she didn’t pull away.

It confirmed everything I had imagined.

I leaned down and whispered, my breath heavy with wine.

“You’re pretending, huh? Wearing this just to sleep? Trying to impress your boss? Don’t worry… I’ll take care of you tonight.”

She stayed silent, her body shaking. I thought it was fear or shyness.

Without waiting, I lifted her and carried her into the guest room on the first floor.

I laid her down on the soft bed. In the darkness, my confidence grew. I kissed her, felt the warmth of her body.

“You smell so familiar…” I murmured, my hands moving restlessly.

My hand slipped beneath the thin silk nightgown, moving upward.

I wanted to feel smooth, youthful skin.

But then—

I froze.

Under my palm was not firm, flawless skin, but a deep scar. Long. Familiar. Surrounded by soft flesh marked with stretch lines.

My heart stopped.

That scar…
A cesarean scar.

The same scar from when Miguel was born. The same stretch marks left behind by two pregnancies—marks no cream could erase.

“Oh God…”

I yanked my hand back as if burned. The drunken haze vanished instantly.

The light suddenly switched on.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

When I opened them—

It wasn’t Liza.

It was Ana.

My wife.

She wasn’t screaming. She wasn’t angry.

She was kneeling on the bed, staring at the ceiling, tears silently sliding down the sides of her face—empty, broken.

“Why did you stop?” she asked quietly, her voice fragile, like glass about to shatter.
“Were you looking for the yaya? I’m sorry… this is all I have. Scars.”

I collapsed onto the floor.

“Ana… I—why… how—”

She slowly sat up, pulling the edge of the nightgown down to cover the scar I had touched.

“That afternoon, I saw the way you looked at Liza,” she said calmly. “I noticed everything. I sent her home to her aunt’s place for three days.”

She laughed softly—bitterly.

“I wore the dress you bought me five years ago. The one I was too ashamed to wear because of my body. I turned off the lights. I waited.”

Her eyes finally met mine.

“It was a gamble. I hoped you’d recognize your wife. Or at least ask, ‘Who is this?’ But you didn’t. You said her name. You praised her skin.”

She smiled—a smile full of pain.

“In your eyes, I’m already old. And these scars—the ones I earned by giving you children—are what killed your desire, right?”

“No! Ana, I was drunk—please—”
I reached for her hand, but she pulled away.

She stood, took a folder from the dresser, and dropped it in front of me.

Divorce papers. Already signed.

“It wasn’t the alcohol,” she said softly. “It only revealed who you really are. You wanted the skin of a twenty-year-old—but what you touched was the sacrifice of a forty-year-old wife.”

She looked at my shaking hands.

“That moment when you froze? That pain you felt? It hurt me more than any slap ever could.”

“Sign it,” she said. “You’re free now. Starting tomorrow, you can bring any woman with long legs into this house. No scars to ruin your appetite.”

She walked out, leaving me alone in the cold room.

I stared at the papers. Then at my hands—the same hands that destroyed everything.

The scar I touched burned in my memory.

It wasn’t ugly.

It was a mother’s medal.

I sat there until morning.

And I knew—our family ended the moment my desire blinded me to the truth beneath the silk.

Youth fades.
Lust passes.
But sacrifice and loyalty—once broken—can never be replaced.

Sometimes, one careless touch is enough to ruin an entire life.